


Sunflowers and Fog: An Enola Holmes Tale

by belapen



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Family Dynamics, Holmes Brothers, Mystery, Post-Canon, Protective Older Brothers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26803492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belapen/pseuds/belapen
Summary: Set just after the end of the movie. Enola stumbles into a new case that will challenge her wits and ability. As she struggles with the expectations and responsibilities her new case brings her, her relationships with her brothers and Tewkesbury continue to evolve.
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Mycroft Holmes, Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Enola Holmes & Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury, Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Comments: 51
Kudos: 312





	1. In which Enola moves into her new home and is almost immediately handed a new case

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I really hope you enjoy this first chapter. I actually ended up giving Tewkesbury a fanon name (I will link the original fic when I find it), so he may now be known as Viscount William Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether.
> 
> I plan to update this once a week or so; I have quite a journey planned out for our dear Enola.

The apartment is stuffy and manages to somehow feel cramped with only a bed, a chair and a desk. She struggles to get the window open. There isn’t much to see beyond, but Enola has never cared for still air. Her fondest memories of Ferndell consist of rushing streams, aged trees, and of course, the glorious wind that had, you would believe, a life of its own. Her fingers struggle with the clasp until finally she drops her hands with a huff. Her fingers come off cloaked in grime. This will have to suffice for now.

Even though the meagerly furnished room, floor littered with Enola’s odds and ends, is a far cry from the vast expanse of Ferndell, Enola feels emotion bubbling up within her. It is unlike her to feel overwhelmed at something so mundane. And yet, she feels it. She feels it for her own place in the city. Granted, she had lived on her own before, but that was a mere, fleeting moment in the midst of her search for her mother. This is long-term.

As long as she is in Mycroft’s charge, she shall stay away from both her brothers. The thought brings about a tightness in her chest, and Enola lets out an unsteady breath. From her earliest memories, she has always yearned to know them both. Intelligent, confident, capable brothers. She has longed for family dinners around the table at Ferndell. Holidays by the sea, chasing each other down the sandy shores. Quite contrary to her mother’s teachings, the desire for family lurks within her. Enola pushes it down. Perhaps when she is thirty. They can’t send her away then, she decides.

There is little to unpack. Enola did not bring with her much from home. There is a single bag with some clothing, notebooks, pencils, a few pieces of home, and, of course, Dash. Leaving her clothes to organize later, she selects a small pink notebook and tucks it into her dress.

Outside, the street is a fairly quiet one. Enola has opted for an establishment not far from the center of the city. It is rather far from Baker Street, where she knows Sherlock resides. She has no intention of going that way, particularly not without a guise. Her street has a handful of storefronts, the remainder being city apartments. As she makes her way down the cobbled path, a rather burly man hurries past her.

Enola stumbles. “Excuse me!” Her long skirt does nothing to help her.

“Ah, sorry miss,” galloping away, he calls over his shoulder. Really, what is the man’s problem? And what is this, a piece of paper fluttering to the ground? Just like everything else today, this piece of paper is extremely dirty, and fairly tattered. So much so that Enola is a moment away from scrunching it up, thoughtlessly. A phrase catches her eye.

‘AOARCNOPNDEGREETV,’ the note reads. ‘HHCD IHAB.’

What ever does it mean? Enola, born and raised on coded messages, inhales sharply. She cannot hide the enormous grin playing on her face, for a mystery had, quite literally, crashed into her. Anything else the note might have once read had been smudged away, worn down by sweat and grime. The code doesn’t make much sense when read backward. Enola has a few tricks up her sleeve for decoding it, but first, she knows she should get as many clues from the environment as she can.

First, the street. This is the same street her new apartment is on. Enola has selected it for its unremarkable qualities, however, perhaps that is no longer true. The man seemed to have exploded out of a watchmaker’s shop. She peers through the window, but there is, once again, nothing truly remarkable to see. Biting her lip, knowing she will look out of place, she decides to enter. The place is neither deserted nor bustling; a few patrons are scattered around the shop. The man behind the counter ignores her entrance, busy with an elderly couple. She asks around a little, garnering odd looks from strangers. No one seems to have known anything about the man, and it appears that he had brought no business to the store either. He had merely browsed, requested to make a call, and left.

“Who did he call?” Enola asks.

* * *

That night, Enola tosses and turns in her bed. Her muscles are weary, eyelids heavy from unpacking and roaming, but with thoughts of the note dancing in her mind, she cannot sleep. She had found out at the watchmaker’s shop that the man who dropped the note had made a phone call. He hadn’t said anything of note that the ladies Enola questioned could recall. All they could tell her was that he had sounded distressed. As for the code, well, Enola hasn’t quite cracked it. A nagging feeling that she is missing a key thread persists through the night.

The next morning, Enola is up at the first sunbeam that makes its way through her window, and she soon discovers that it is nearly midday, for her room gets none of the morning light. An Enola without a note would be saddened by this. But, as you are aware, our Enola has a secret coded message waiting to be deciphered. She has not a minute to lose! Starving, Enola grabs the piece of paper and runs down the stairs. She really must have a bite to eat. As she approaches the ground floor, voices waft into the stairwell.

“She’s my mother!” It’s the voice of the man who ran into her. Who dropped the note! He is in her building? Enola’s heartrate picks up. He’s not looking for the note is he?

The second voice comes. “Calm down, Matthew. We will manage both, I promise.”

Enola, relieved that they hadn’t come for her, continues down the stairs, hoping for a quick glance at the second speaker. When she rounds the corner and steps through the door, she sees the back of the burly man from yesterday blocking a slender figure from view. Presumably another man, from the sound of his voice. From the bakery, she collects a croissant. Tossing it into her bag, she hurries back through the door in time to see a slender gentleman in a pale suit climb into a motor car. Enola has never seen him before, and by the expression on his face, she doesn’t particularly want to see him again. He drives off.

Back inside her building, the burly man – Matthew – is nowhere to be seen. If he is living here, then Enola had better keep an eye on him. Finding a comfortable armchair, she pulls out her notebook and begins a new page. From memory, Enola notes down the letters. It is curious to her that the phrase comes in three segments. The first segment is easy to decode, and Enola writes it down in her notebook almost immediately. However, it is the latter portion that sits in the back of her mind, evolving and detaching in numerous configurations, promise deteriorating with each iteration.

* * *

After several hours, Enola decides to give herself a break from cracking the note. She has committed to having dinner with Tewkesbury and his family. She contemplates an evening gown, decides against it, and heads off. To her surprise, he has sent a carriage. Dinner at the grand old house is always lovely. Tewkesbury’s mother, his uncle, and, of course, Tewkesbury sit around the dining table. Drinks and laughs are had. Enola enjoys these dinners very much. There have been only a handful so far, but Enola has grown attached to the Tewkesbury family, the ease with which they enjoy each other’s company. Enola is asked about herself, but she decides to keep the case private for now. She doesn’t really have a lot of information just yet. But, she finds, she can’t help but confide in Tewkesbury.

When dinner is completed, Tewkesbury walks with her out into the gardens. The gardens at Basilwether are in stark contrast to those at Ferndell. At Ferndell, there is a certain wild quality to the flowers and vines and weeds that grow. No gardener in Enola’s memory had ever been employed, and the grounds are just _alive_. Basilwether, on the other hand, is beautiful and manicured. Managed. The flowers bloom in predetermined patterns, and the grass is exactly an inch tall everywhere. No weeds in sight. Enola observes without judgement, noting that each estate has a different beauty. She is glad that she is able to share in the beauty at Basilwether, that they have welcomed her so warmly.

Tewkesbury smiles at her. “You look really nice in that skirt. And like you’ve got something on your mind.”

Enola feels her face begin to heat up. She hates how it does that. “You’re not looking so bad yourself, Tewkesbury. Say, Tewkesbury, I don’t believe you’ve told me your first name.”

“It’s William,” he laughs. “You would know that if you’d paid any attention to my mother when she speaks to me.”

Enola drops her jaw. “William? I thought she was talking to your uncle.”

“Yes, I share his name. Enola Holmes, I thought you were a genius.”

“I’m not sure if I shall call you that,” she says, scrunching her face. “You may just forever be Nincompoop to me.”

He meets her gaze. His face is soft and open. She can see that he doesn’t mind at all. Affection flutters in her chest. This boy is so delicate and lovely, quite like that rose he had given to her in Covent Garden, at the flower market. His eyes are gentle and kind, and he smiles so easily. Ever since they met, Enola feels this fierce need to protect the boy.

She shakes herself. “Uh, yes, I do have something on my mind, actually. A case. A rather curious one, in fact.” She tells him everything she knows. His eyes widen.

“Woah, that is… That is just mad! The opera, you say?” He shakes his head. “No date, no time? Let me see the note.”

“It’s just jumbles of letters,” she says. She pulls out the notebook, and the two of them spend a good hour puzzling over the coded message before the time comes for Enola to return home. Tewkesbury promises to enquire about the shows that are currently playing at the opera for her. “But be discreet,” Enola says firmly. “I don’t want any of this getting out.”

* * *

Back home, Enola readies herself for sleep. The note calls her name, and she ponders it as she gradually succumbs to sleep. Enola sniffs. Suddenly awake, she sniffs again. Something in the air smells wrong. Enola traipses sleepily to the window. It’s still jammed shut, there is no way she can open it. She makes a mental note to ask the woman at the front desk to help her open it tomorrow. Picking up her notebook, Enola heads downstairs to the shared lounge. The odour dies down as she leaves her floor. She sniffs again. Is it stronger by that door? Enola runs to door number 8. It is. She knocks. The door opens, an exhausted Matthew stands on the other side in sleepwear – she has obviously woken him. The odour, unpleasant as ever is strongest in this room. With a jolt, realisation hits Enola.

Half an hour later, firemen are still surrounding the perimeter of the building. Enola had desperately wanted to question the man, Matthew, but as they had all been evacuated, he had vanished into the crowd. Enola was left in the dark, wearing only a nightdress. She fortunately still has her reward money, tucked away in her socks. And her wits about her. How had the fire started? The fireman she had spoken to had said that nothing pointed to unnatural causes... But that smell. She can’t deny the smell. After all, that was the reason she had risen in the first place.

“Enola.” A familiar voice behind her. Familiar voice. Yet, oddly, a softer tone than she would expect. She turns uncertainly, half a mind to begin running. But the look on Sherlock’s face washes those feelings away. “Enola,” he says again. He lifts an arm uncertainly; she has never seen him look so unsure. She can tell that he was not expecting to run into her here.


	2. In which Enola sips some tea and ponders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this shorter-than-planned chapter, Enola and Sherlock converse. Enola has doubts, makes a small breakthrough, and takes impulsive action at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mostly Enola&Sherlock, no mention of our darling Viscount in this chapter.)
> 
> An update! I apologise for any inconsistencies and grammatical errors. This is my first long fic, and as you can see, I am extremely inexperienced as a writer and reaaaaally need a beta!
> 
> I also chose to write in present tense, which I've often done for oneshots, and it was a Very Bad Idea for my first long fic... lmao

At Sherlock’s apartment, Enola sips on her tea. With nothing in her lap, she stares at it. Thoughts tumble over each other in her mind. Sherlock watches quietly. Enola feels as though she is at war with herself; she knows she shouldn’t have come here, but she can’t bring herself to leave just yet. Her mother’s voice speaks in her head; _Never waver in your decisions, Enola._

She’d give anything to hear that voice again. It had been nice to catch up with her in London, but that’s all it had been - a catch-up. Mother had left in a hurry, saying something about people observing her every move. Her eyes sting. She’s always known her mother is strong and fiercely independent. She’s always been somewhat… tempestuous. But always loving. Wild, but thoughtful. And always a mother first – until her sixteenth birthday.

Enola sits up straight. It doesn’t help her to dwell on Mother, all it does is make her feel out of her depth, as if she were a child. She needs to take charge again. “You evade my question. What were you doing there?” Either Sherlock doesn’t hear or he doesn’t care to answer.

The living room is quite unassuming. Browns and greys are splattered around the room, the coffee table a marvelous walnut-coloured beast, the sofa a delicate grey. A sepia globe perches on a stool in the corner, a redundant map of the world on the wall behind. Every object is in its place, neatly tucked away. Just like Mother’s rooms. Except for the papers. Papers, in the subdued room, are strewn across every surface. There are newspapers, journals, notebooks, a set of chemistry textbooks, and several odd novels. More than half are lying open, tossed absent-mindedly through the room, one or two with pages torn out, even. Curiosity gets the better of Enola and she tries to read the piece closest to her. ‘Nuclear magnetic resonance analysis of new psychoactive substances.’ Goodness, what does her brother read about?

Sherlock stands by the fireplace, an envelope in hand. He appears to have forgotten all about his sister, a perplexed look clouding his face. “Sherlock,” Enola says, sharply.

He drags his eyes off the paper. It seems to take him several seconds to come back to reality. His eyes gradually focus. “Oh,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting to run into you, Enola.”

“Yes, I gathered as much.” She looks coolly at him. His posture is slouched, grey suit crinkling around his elbows. He seems preoccupied, and yet present. His eyes are now carefully watching her. It’s almost absurd to her that had this been Mycroft, Enola would have been deeply uncomfortable. Less so with Sherlock. After all, he brought her Dash. An emotional action if Enola has ever seen one, and, similarly, Enola fancies that he wouldn’t call Mycroft and have her sent away. After all, he has had ample time to do so.

“I was there on a case,” he says, dropping his gaze. He takes a sip of his tea. “You know, it has just occurred to me that I’d forgotten the last time I put my own kettle on. It really is rather easy.” And it warms Enola’s fingers – she’s been clenching her fists less the longer she grasps the teacup. “I should make tea more often. Actually, it’s a prospective case. Received a letter from the fellow this morning. Thought I’d scope out the address.” Absent-mindedly, murmuring something else about tea that Enola doesn’t quite catch, Sherlock slips the paper into a file before sitting down across from Enola.

Sherlock had been working on a case. He really hadn’t been looking for her. A twinge of sadness emerges, which is unwelcome, seeing as she hadn’t exactly wanted to be found anyway. It’s dangerously emotional territory. She forces her mind to wander to his case. “What did the letter say?”

“Confidential.” Sherlock gives a half-smirk. It’s met with an eye roll.

“Afraid I’ll solve it before you?”

“Unlikely. While interesting, it isn’t much of a case yet. I have yet to meet my client.” Sherlock shifts. His fingers inattentively dust his trousers. Enola lifts her cup quickly, hiding a small smile. This exchange may have been meager, but growing up, reading about her brothers, this is exactly the kind of casual conversation she had always wanted. “Of course, if you were interested, then you could perhaps assist me.”

Enola nearly chokes on her tea. She’s kept a scrapbook of newspaper clippings ever since she can remember, outlining case after case of her brother’s. She wants to say _of course I want_ to. She wants to explain that since they met at the station, this is all she has wanted, that she’s sorry Mycroft’s pesky ideas got in the way. For a moment, Enola is swept up in her daydream. Instead, she says, “You know I must leave. He cannot find me.”

“Ah. Yes. I didn’t mention that you were no longer his ward?”

For someone obsessed with his own intellect, it is quite ridiculous to her that he would ask a question they both know the definitive answer to. “No.” Enola has been dreading Mycroft’s frightful scowl. “I don’t understand. He’ll let me be? Am I on my own?”

“If you wish.”

“What in the world do you mean Sherlock? I wish you would stop speaking in riddles. Is Mother back at Ferndell?” Her heart twitches at the latter prospect. Hopeful.

“I have not heard from her.” There’s an unexpected hint of apology in his tone, and then it’s gone. Briskly, Sherlock continues. “Mycroft and I spoke. We agreed that it would be best if you were to become my ward. My responsibility. I don’t plan to send you away, however if you wish to leave, you may. I should quite like to get to know you, however. And it would be my pleasure to have you work alongside me.”

Enola’s heart is racing. There has to be a catch. “Lestrade said you work alone.”

“I certainly am used to working alone. You’ll need to keep up.”

She can’t help it, she snorts with amusement.

* * *

What had been subdued and dim the previous night is now lit up in golden streams of morning light. Enola stirs. Every muscle seems to be sore, and opening her eyes, she realizes she fell asleep on the sofa. A blanket covers her, warm and soft. Where did it come from? Enola sits up slowly. They must have talked until she fell asleep. She faintly remembers being offered the spare room, but the night had caught up to her quickly. It had been a long walk from her apartment to Sherlock’s, in the middle of the night. The stress of evacuating, the intrigue of the mysterious Matthew, and all the emotions that came afterward, it had been a cocktail of exhaustion. She hadn’t realized how much of a weight each had been, but waking up now, comfortable – bar the sore muscles – and content, she is glad things turned out the way they did.

Sherlock is still sleeping, his long form awkwardly folded into an armchair. Enola contemplates whether to wake him, wondering what sane person would rather cram themselves into a chair for a night when a perfectly good bed is available down the hall. She doesn’t. Instead she settles back down with her notebook. ‘AOARCNOPNDEGREETV,’ she has already unjumbled to mean ‘COVENT GARDEN OPERA.’ It’s the latter part of the message she can’t quite match. ‘HHCD IHAB.’

Soon, she will make her way back to her apartment. She wonders if the firemen have reconsidered their verdict. She also hopes the building hasn’t burned down, although she tells herself that this is unlikely. Firemen had been called quickly, as soon as the gas leak was identified. Something tells Enola that it’s related to her case. Her mind idles on her list of clues so far. The man, the note, his friend, their conversation about the mother, and the gas leak. There isn’t much to go off, but Enola does rather enjoy speculating. Had the gas leak been with intention to kill Matthew? It’s a possibility she doesn’t want to rule out, especially as she was drawn to his apartment by the odour. And there isn’t any confirmation bias that she can spot, as she hadn’t known where exactly the man lived until then.

And while she is speculating, Enola thinks, _what if Matthew is the culprit?_ Of course, he does seem concerned about his mother, but what if Matthew is actually the bad person? _Oh, and,_ Enola’s mind continues, _what if that wasn’t even his apartment? What if he caused the gas leak?_ She needs to get back to that building. Whatever may be there, Enola needs more clues. She feels oddly inexperienced, somewhat small. _Sherlock would probably know, if he were in my position, whether Matthew is the innocent or the guilty party._

To distract herself, she shifts back to the message. Covent Garden Opera. Then what? The letters are all early in the alphabet. She has been treating them as a jumbled message, but perhaps they encode numbers? She grabs her pencil. 8834 9812. It doesn’t appear to be a date, a time or a relevant postcode.

Her eyes widen and the pencil clatters to the floor as she leaps up. Down the hallway is a telephone, and before she can even think about what she would say, her fingers are punching in the numbers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being a bit shorter than I intended, but it's motivating to keep updating chapters. I don't really want to start overthinking things because then I know I'll fall off the updating schedule haha


	3. In which Enola investigates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enola, feeling a little confused about the path she is on, has an unexpectedly eventful afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the lovely KayKenobi for her extremely speedy and helpful edits :)

Her heart races. Outside, a bird chirps.

She presses the phone into her ear, straining although there’s only ringing to hear. Nobody picks up. The ringing continues. Enola bites her lip. Admitting defeat, she places the phone back. The number must be wrong.  _ Oh well, it was dubious at best. _

Collecting her things is easy. As she quietly pads past her sleeping brother, she feels a pang of guilt. He had been kind. Last night had been  _ nice. _ Even so, Sherlock’s presence in her life these past twelve hours have complicated her plans already. She was set to begin her life on her own terms, hidden from both him and Mycroft. Although the possibility of collaborating with Sherlock on cases evokes a certain thrill within her, that thrill is still tinged with a bitterness.

Borrowing a coat is less easy, but she needs one to get home. She takes the one from the stand by the door. The air is clear and crisp, punctured only by the sounds of horses walking past. Enola contemplates hailing a carriage but decides against it. Her borrowed coat is long enough to hide her nightdress, and although she has already begun to accrue strange looks from passersby, a long walk will do well to clear her mind.

This morning, she’d woken up with a sense of calm. As the morning had worn on, she had realised that it wasn’t particularly the future she was afraid of. She now knows that she is safe from a future of finishing school. She now knows that she can have the future she begged of Sherlock back at Ferndell Hall, after the disappearance of their mother.

Her walk to return to her lodging takes perhaps forty minutes in total. She strolls down narrow lanes, turns onto wide streets. Victoria Street, York Street; with every turn, a familiar name is encountered, from the various clippings she kept as a child. The houses that line the paths are large and imposing. Wooden exteriors with elaborate trim. Each seems more textured and sophisticated than the next. It’s certainly a sharp contrast to the secluded expanse of Ferndell Hall.

Somehow her walk seems longer than that she took with Viscount Tewkesbury after jumping off the train. How ridiculous that she should compare the two, she thinks. One was over multiple days through dense forest, with no food and no water. The other is forty minutes through, for the most part, hushed roads, permeated only by a handful of hurried walkers. Enola will not admit it; she rather does enjoy the Viscount’s easy company. Reminded of the fact that she is to lunch with him today, her lips twitch into a small smile.

* * *

As she turns onto her street and approaches her building, she sees it’s still cordoned off. From her distance, she observes as pedestrian pauses to speak with him. She recognizes her from the watchmaker’s shop as one of the women she spoke with. The guard shakes his head, and the woman walks off. He’s clearly there to prevent people from entering.

“Excuse me, sir.” Enola waves a little to get his attention as she nears. He raises his head from the book in his lap, looking appreciative at the prospect of conversation.  _ He must be bored out of his mind,  _ she thinks,  _ to be looking so interested at a rather fleeting chat. _

“Yes, miss?”

“How long will it be until I am able to return to my rooms?”

“You live ‘ere miss? I’ve been given orders to keep this ‘ere area closed for forty-eight hours. That’s till midnight tomorrow.” He looks her up and down, looking a little flustered as he takes in her state of dress. “I apologise, miss.”

“Oh,” she sighs. “Well, would you know if there is an investigation under way?”

“Well, I can’t say, miss.”

Disappointed, Enola turns away. Then, “Would you have the time?”

“’s 11 am.”

Almost time for lunch.

* * *

An hour later, Enola sits at a table across from Tewkesbury in a gorgeous tea garden furnished with boxes of flowers. The iron chair is nice and cool under Enola’s legs, a welcome change from the heat of the afternoon. The waitress has taken their orders, and the two of them sit back with no haste for their food to arrive.

“So, how have you been since I last saw you?” Tewkesbury leans forward in his chair.

Enola breaks into a grin. “You’ll not  _ believe  _ the time I’ve had,” she says. Even though every plan she had made has turned on its head, seeing this ridiculous boy ameliorates everything. Well, most things. She’s still sitting in a respectable tea garden in her absurd attire. She proceeds to recount the events of last night, her tale punctuated by Tewkesbury’s exclaims of surprise.

“That’s it, I’ve run out of fingers,” she says finally, glaring at him.

“What?”

“You’ve just interrupted me ten times, Tewkesbury. At this rate I shall never finish the story!”

Tewkesbury sputters. “You’ve been counting my interjections?”

“Yes. Under the table, on my fingers,” she says impatiently, as though this should be obvious. She mock-frowns at him. He tries to return the favour by furrowing his brows and scrunching his nose, sending Enola into a fit of giggles. “Alright, where was I? Oh yes, I was telling you about calling the number. Well, I’m not sure if it was correct. Nobody picked up. I suppose I shall try again later. Just in case”

“Enola.” Tewkesbury’s voice is low and serious. All the humour has dissipated, and he leans further forward, elbows landing on the table. “I think you’re taking a lot of risk. Whoever wrote the note can’t be a nice person – what were you even intending to say to him, had he picked up?”

“I hadn’t thought it through,” she says, a little nettled.  _ But I thought you would support me _ , she doesn’t add.

Fortunately, the waitress arrives, rescuing Enola from the frustrating turn this conversation had taken. Her plate has a delicious large breakfast, with ham and eggs and bread. She tucks in, offering a piece of her ham to Tewkesbury, who had opted for a lighter lunch of tossed salad. He politely refuses. They eat in silence, listening to the bustle surrounding their table. Enola finds it very entertaining, watching what must be a governess to a rather large family of children attempt to wrangle errant twins. The children seem determined to evade her, shrieking and laughing, as the poor woman chases after them, dropping apologies at each table. The parents, eating with their teenagers, shoot icy daggers at her. Enola feels bad for the governess.

“You mentioned that your lodging will remain closed tonight,” Tewkesbury says, drawing her attention away from the children. “You will be returning to Sherlock’s?”

Her stomach sinks a little. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I was meaning to ask, Tewkesbury,” she begins uncertainly, “would your mother be willing to let me stay at Basilwether tonight?”

He beams at her. “Of course she would, you know she would –  _ we  _ would. Of course. I have a prior engagement after our lunch, but I shall arrange a carriage to collect you – where will you be around, say, 4’o’clock this-“ He pauses. “Hang on, what happened with your brother? That’s something I wanted to ask before, but then you wouldn’t let me interrupt. Not that I’m complaining that you’ll stay at Basilweth-“

“Slow down,” says Enola, holding up a hand. She smiles at Tewkesbury. “First, a big thank you. Second, why not outside my building? That would likely be easiest. Third, yes, 4’o’clock will be just fine.”

“And fourth,” he prompts.

“And fourth,” she says, “I’m bitter.”

Tewkewbury frowns in confusion. “About?”

“I don’t know if I have any right to be, but I am. He stood by and did nothing when I begged him to after Mother’s disappearance. He was capable of standing up to Mycroft. He was. And yet, he didn’t-“ she breaks off, eyes shining.

“I understand.” Tewkesbury reaches across the table, his hand coming to settle over her clenched fist. She’s grateful for the contact.

  
  


* * *

“See you later,” says Enola, as they part ways from the tea garden.

“I look forward to it,” Tewkesbury replies, cheeks a little pink.

She has two hours until she is to meet the carriage to Basilwether. As her mind clicks over, her undirected walk acquires a destination. She speeds up, anticipation driving her forward.

It worries her, this line she is about to cross. She has never attempted to invade someone’s home before, but there seems no good reason to not begin her career as a detective as thoroughly as possible.

Her first challenge is to get past the guard in front of the building. She waits quietly for a few minutes. He appears to be engrossed in his book. Enola accepts the risk. Sneaking carefully past, she ducks into the little alley on the right of the building. The place smells frightful, but Enola barely notices in her excitement. Running carefully down the alley, she reaches the side door that she had noticed from the reception. She expects it will be locked, but tries to rattle the knob anyway. To her surprise, the door swings open. Stepping inside, she goes to close the door behind her. The lock is broken, she realises with a shudder. Her breath catches. She really shouldn’t be doing this.  _ Suspecting foul play and sneaking into the building anyway do not seem like compatible actions for a sixteen year old girl, _ she thinks.

She also knows that she must make her own way in this world. To be a detective, a scientific perditorian, she needs clients, cases, and most importantly, a reputation. She takes another step. The reception is dim, the lights are off, but some light streams through the windows. As her eyes adjust, she looks around. Everything in the reception looks orderly; there isn’t anything that appears suspicious. Even the smell from last night is barely there.

She walks over to the desk and slips behind it, into the seat of the receptionist. Under the desk, Enola notes a number of filing cabinets, none of them labelled, and a bin. She opens the first cabinet. It is stuffed with papers. Unlike the orderly appearance of the reception, it seems that there is no system to the way this cabinet is filed. With a deep sigh, she begins to sift through. Several are financial documents; budgeting, accounting, projections. She flicks through what feels like thousands of papers, before she stumbles across an occupancy list. It’s dated for a month in 1894, six years ago. But it gives her hope that she may find the present list.

The next filing cabinet is crammed with papers that all seem to be occupancy lists. None of them are for this year. Idly, she pulls out a handful of arbitrary papers, skimming over the lines. There is nothing interesting whatsoever. In the third filing cabinet, she finds what she is looking for. It is more ordered, probably since it is the most recent file. Thumbing through, she finds the latest document. Apartment 8 is currently rented by a Mr Oliver B. Odd.  _ Perhaps this is a fake name? _

The rest of the documents suggest that this occupant has been living here for the past three months. With nothing left to glean, Enola takes a quick peek at the contents of the bin before leaving the reception. She collects a ring of spare keys from a drawer in the desk, and heads upstairs.

At Matthew’s door, Enola fumbles with the keys. Her hands shake. She forces herself to stop and take a deep breath. There’s no one here, the building is completely vacated. She’ll be in and out, she tells herself. And soon, she will be on her way to Basilwether, for a delightful supper with lovely company. Taking another deep breath, she tries the next key. And the next. Finally, after what seems like twice as many keys as she is holding, one clicks the lock open. Quietly, Enola pushes the door open.

The apartment is bigger than hers. She had found the cheapest lodging she could, in order to sustain the reward money from Tewkesbury’s mother for as long as possible. Matthew’s apartment is much larger than hers, and much more luxurious. For one, it seems as though he has a proper kitchen, more than the diminutive sink and stove Enola’s has. The bathroom, a room off to the left, also seems nicer. But although it is bigger, the living room, where she presently stands, is an incredible mess. Items are tossed all over the place.  _ As though someone has been searching for something _ , thinks Enola.

A lamp lies on the floor, shattered. The cushions on the sofa are askew, one, even, on the dining table. Books are on the floor. Either Matthew is extremely careless, or someone has definitely been here. The thought sends chills down Enola’s spine. It’s not that she can’t take care of herself – because she can.  _ It’s just eerie to think _ , she tells herself.

She doesn’t really know what she is looking for. Nor if she will find it. Her predecessor likely found whatever it is that’s so important. And if he didn’t, then what chance does she have, she who does not even know what it is? Regardless, she has come this far.

Enola begins her search near the door. As she sifts through Matthew’s belongings, she feels an increasing sense of frustration that she might have run headfirst into something she didn’t know. With no idea what she is looking for, Enola picks up a sofa cushion and places it on the couch. As she sits down, a barely audible sound catches her attention. She feels the cushion with her fingers, prodding thoughtfully. Standing again, she goes to pick it up when a second barely audible sound catches her attention.

She’s not alone.

Enola's breath catches in her throat. She glances furtively around trying to see where the noise came from. The weight of her actions are suddenly terrifying. Dropping the cushion, Enola quickly shuffles over to the bathroom, staying as silent as possible. 

There, she crouches, hidden from view of the living room. She has left the door open, so as not to make any noise, and through it, after about a minute of awful anticipation, she sees a shadowy figure emerge from the bedroom and disappear. A moment later, she hears the front door click shut, and she exhales with relief. This had been a terrible idea. _Not as bad as tossing Tewkesbury into the hands of killers at Basilwether though,_ she thinks, grimly

Enola waits for perhaps longer than necessary, but she wants to be certain that whoever was here has truly left. Feeling a little calmer, Enola leaves the bathroom. She drops the keys off at the reception, and sneaks back out the way she came. Once she feels the fresh air outside, she sighs, noticing that it has gotten dark. She'd lost track of time. It had been a bloody long afternoon.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is likely going to be from Sherlock's perspective; I hope that's enjoyable :)


	4. In which Sherlock meets the Viscount

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Sherlock's perspective, as he thinks he possibly should have tried harder with Enola.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big delay in posting this due to uni and life getting in the way :( Big thanks to KayKenobi for her great job beta-ing :)

_ Dear Mr. Holmes, _

_ I write to you about a case. I do hope you will consider it. I came across your name at the local police station. They were unable to take my case due to a lack of evidence and suggested that you may be interested. _

_ You see, there have been some rather odd goings-on. First, my mother was intending to visit London. I went to collect her off the train, yet she was nowhere to be seen. When I asked her about it over the phone, the woman barely answered with anything useful. _

_ But there is more. I am ashamed to write that I had been involved in some rough dealings in my old job. I am not proud of it. It worries me that it may have caught up to me. _

_ This is all I dare write in a letter. I remain sincerely hopeful of receiving your word. _

_ Yours respectfully, _

_ Mr. Eldridge _

He places his pen on his parchment.

_ Dear Mr. Eldridge, _

_ I should like to meet with you to discuss your case in further detail. _

_ I cannot say it greatly interests me yet. We shall see. _

_ Yours, _

_ S. Holmes _

* * *

Short. To the point. Sherlock rests his pen, pleased. He folds the parchment, slips it into an envelope and rises from the desk. Gazing around his living room, it suddenly feels empty, although there are no fewer books on the floor and no fewer pages strewn across the tables.  _ There is, however, one fewer sister _ , the voice in his head unhelpfully points out.

Being a detective attracts one to questions – questions like what sort of rough dealings was Mr. Eldridge involved with? What did it have to do with his mother? And, more persistently, why did Enola leave? He tells himself that this is his bread and butter. He is not being emotional. If he weren’t to ask questions, then who would? Why had Enola left without a word? They’d had quite a nice chat the previous night, he’d thought.

And if he’d been a little distracted, a little preoccupied, well, it was only to wonder at the strange coincidence of running into his sister, whom he had  _ not _ been looking for at the return address of his possible new client. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t believe in coincidences, and he had, perhaps, been rather preoccupied the night before trying to put the pieces together.

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

Enola hadn’t seemed uncomfortable. But he supposes now that he hadn’t really been paying attention. She had seemed calm, present, curious, and generally pleased to be invited back to his home. So why had she left without saying a word?

He had even invited her to collaborate with him on his new case. She had seemed interested. He had been about to discuss the letter and his first impressions when she had begun to nod off. Sherlock racks his brain. He’d offered her the spare room, she had promptly fallen asleep. He’d thought they’d been getting on rather well.

* * *

That afternoon, after a hearty lunch, he finds himself at Basilwether. Sherlock had first visited the street of sister’s lodging, where he determined that the building would remain closed tonight. Unsuccessful there, he has now arrived at Basilwether, and at the same time, at the conclusion that perhaps ought to have tried harder with Enola.

Trees line the driveway like sentries, gradually giving way to green, manicured grass. He thanks his driver, before making his way up the stairs.

A servant opens the door to his knock, eyes widening at the sight of him. “Is the lord expecting you, sir?” she asks. Her eyes are apologetic though, she clearly knows who he is.

Before Sherlock can answer, a voice calls from within the house, and footsteps hurry to the door. The viscount looks out, excited, and his expression rapidly changes when he sees Sherlock at the door.

“Good afternoon, Viscount Tewkesbury,” says Sherlock with a slight bow. “I have come to enquire about my sister.”

“Y- Yes, I actually thought you were she, Mr. Holmes,” the Viscount says, looking around once more. Distracted, he glances again behind Sherlock before stepping back. “Come in.”

The estate proves to be spacious and tastefully decorated, with hardwood flooring and simple wallpaper. The walls are decorated with framed art, beautiful landscapes that transition to portraits of stern faces.

Once inside, he takes the seat offered to him. He politely declines the offer of tea. “You are expecting my sister?” He forces his voice to be light and inquisitive, rather than betraying the guilt that had grown in him throughout the day and the worry that is sparking within him now that he knows Enola should be here but isn’t.

The viscount opens his mouth only to close it again. His fingers nervously fumble with the edge of his shirt. His eyes are fixed on Sherlock. “Why are you here?” he asks finally.

“I am searching for Enola.”

“Have you considered that Enola may not wish to be found by you?”

The question feels like a blow to his stomach. Yet, it is deserved, Sherlock decides. “That may be true. It pains me greatly that my own sister would want nothing to do with me.”

“And yet you still seek her?”

“I have an apology to make,” says Sherlock. The viscount’s gaze makes him feel vulnerable. It shouldn’t be so; he’s elder to the youthful lord, and certainly much more intelligent. He shifts uncomfortably.

Moments later, a middle-aged man arrives. By the cut of his coat, Sherlock presumes he is the viscount’s chauffeur. The viscount briefly steps out to speak with him. Sherlock spends this moment assessing the parlour. Again, the area is quite tastefully decorated. The furniture consists of elegant hues of blue, sitting on the same polished hardwood floor. Beyond the sitting area, every square inch of the room is covered in greenery, from potted plants to picked flowers. A fireplace sits, nestled between twin potted plants –  _ Ficus lyrata _ , Sherlock recalls,  _ the fiddle-leaf fig _ .

“It’s half past five. She should have been here.” Viscount Tewkesbury appears at the door, running a hand through his hair and staring anxiously at the grandfather clock against the wall. His forehead has creased in worry. “She was intending to stay here tonight,” he says, tone guarded. “She should have been waiting for the carriage, though. I hope-“ he breaks off.

The implications of those words curl around Sherlock in cold fear.  _ This doesn’t mean anything.  _ He forces himself to exhale.  _ There’s still no reason to worry. _

“Where and exactly when was your chauffeur to collect Enola?”

“More than an hour ago, from her residence.”

“And she wasn’t there?” Sherlock directs his question at the man who has just entered the parlour to inform them of the very fact. He shakes his head.

“I waited for an hour before returning,” says the man.

Slipping into questioning mode is too tempting to resist. For a moment, he can forget that this is his  _ sixteen-year-old  _ sister who isn’t where she should be. He fires off a few more queries at him, paying little mind to the answers. He focuses on the man himself. Dressed impeccably, the man clutches his hands together in front of him, eyes on the ground as he responds quickly to the interrogation.

The viscount finally speaks, “We need to look for her.” With nothing left to glean from his half-hearted questions, Sherlock stands to leave.

* * *

The ride from Basilwether to the city feels longer than the trip to the estate he had made just an hour earlier. From the way the young lord is fidgeting next to him, Sherlock suspects that he knows more than he has let on. Before Sherlock can ask, the viscount speaks.

“I worry that she may have gotten herself caught up in some trouble.”

“What makes you think that?”

“She was, well, she was investigating a case. I fear that she may have gotten in the way of bad folks.” The viscount continues to weave his fingers together, untangle, and repeat the motions with the periodicity of a second. 

“We shall find her,” says Sherlock. His tone is unlike him. His words are unlike him. And, the intentions of his words - to reassure - are  _ very _ unlike him. He doesn’t ever make promises he can’t keep. 

They arrive on Enola’s street. It’s mostly deserted, save for an officer sitting by her cordoned-off building. Sherlock approaches him swiftly.

“Yes, I saw ‘er a few hours ago, sir,” says the man. His eyes have widened in the now-familiar recognition. Sherlock notices this, but barely. He fixates on  _ a few hours ago _ .

“Where did she go?”

“I- Uh- I couldn’t say, sir.”

Sherlock sighs. Behind him, the viscount stamps his foot on the cobbled path. He looks up and down the street, noting nothing out of the ordinary. Striding off, Sherlock reaches the mouth of the alleyway by the building. Large rubbish bins cause him to wrinkle his nose. The ground is wet and broken, although it hasn’t rained today. As he walks further down, he sees a small side-door in the wall. 

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock spins on his heels at the sound of his sister’s voice. 

“Enola!” he exclaims. “I’m so glad to-” Sherlock doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as Enola wraps her arms around him, much closer to him than anybody has been in  _ decades _ . Not since he was a child. It’s tight and…  _ hairy _ . But she’s so warm, and he really is very pleased to find her alive and well. He brings his arms up and gingerly places them around her shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
